


skin still gold

by Anonymous



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some say magic is a blessing; others consider it a curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	skin still gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butforthegrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butforthegrace/gifts).



> This story went on much longer than I thought it would, and went in a bit of a different direction, too, but I promised you a treat and so a treat I deliver. I have tried to incorporate your tastes as much as possible but I apologize if you had been hoping for something different. I hope your proper Yuletide story is much better than this meager offering.
> 
> Endless praise and thanks to my beta, T, who picked out many of the nonsensical ramblings in this fic. Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> This story includes characters from various fairy tales and myths.

Once upon a time, there was a prince who lived in a world of gold and hated every minute of it. There was a queen who never wanted the honor and a wolf who waited out the winters alone. There was magic, the kind which breaks hearts, and the kind which takes those broken pieces and turns them into something better.

 

Once upon a time, they were all alone.

 

 

 

 

 

Tula saw her knitting beside a lake and fell in love with her silence. A king who had been born and raised in the palace, he had grown up believing that his future wife would be the same sort of woman his mother had been: quiet, polite and devastatingly beautiful. The first time he laid eyes on Elise, he asked her to marry him. He had not expected a refusal; condemned to be mute, she could not give one.

 

He had watched her every day as she spun shirts from stinging nettles, shrouded in sorrow. For the first time, Tula had wanted to hear a woman’s voice. The maids at his castle were too lowly for him to speak to, while the princesses he met at balls were well versed in the language of empty words; Tula would rather hear naught than listen to lies. He had wanted to ask why the girl by the lake continued to scar her hands and feet to make shirt after shirt when nobody ever came to claim them. He had wanted to ask why she refused to defend herself against the Archbishop’s cruel accusations that the shirts she knitted were part of a witch’s routine. With a possessive streak that shocked him, he had wanted her to speak for only him, so they could rule together above the crowds of common people who spoke of everything and nothing all at once. He begged her to sing for him, but all he heard was the song of the swans in reply.

 

Then the girl had thrown the shirts over the swans and fainted as they shook off their feathers to become princes. When she awoke, she found herself married to the king she could not have refused, to a man who had loved her for the silence she now was free to break.

 

For when Elise began to speak, Tula found his desire for her fading fast. Having longed so deeply to hear her, Elise’s voice could never match the heavenly one Tula had imagined she would possess. The king was not accustomed to being criticized, either, and after a few cutting remarks about the décor of his castle he was wishing for the days when his wife would sit silent in her mystery and allow him to gaze on her impassive face.

 

Elise, too, grew frustrated. During her self-imposed solitude, she had been grateful for his company, but once they were married she felt trapped by his expectations of her. Before her brothers had been turned into swans, cursed to remain animals until Elise finished knitting the nettle shirts in silence, she had been a lively princess. She had grown up riding with her brothers and pranking the castle tutor. In Tula’s large, cold palace, she missed laughing with her family in the sunlight. She tried to love Tula, and he in turn fought to keep the passionate desire he had once held for her, but in the end Elise bore only one child before she relocated to the opposite side of the castle.

 

Tula knew that his wife was unhappy. He was not a bad king, though often self-centered, and Elise was his first love. He was slightly more aware of her moods than he was of the rest of his subjects’, so in an attempt to please her he worked hard to fulfill her every wish. Gradually, control of the castle fell to Elise while Tula spent the seasons courting officials abroad. By the time he died in a chance raid in a distant land three years after their son’s birth, Elise wore her crown with the power of a king and the elegance of a queen.

 

Motherhood, by contrast, was something she wore like a ragged cape she found shameful. The boy was kept out of her sight for the most part, but this did more harm than good, for he grew more like his father in appearance every day. Whenever Elise saw his dark curls and dusty brown skin she would be seized with resentment for the man who had torn her away from her family. Knowing that her son was not at fault but unable to overcome her emotions, she tried to deny the boy’s existence, refusing to buy him clothes or toys. In response, he clung to the servants, gurgling at the maids as they cleaned and tottering out of the kitchen with cookie crumbs around an enormous smile.

 

Eventually, one of the cooks took pity on the child, setting him to work far from the queen’s nervous eyes. A couple of weeks and he was indistinguishable from a servant; his clothes grew so shabby even the servants noticed, earning him the nickname Rumple. He knew, in theory, that his name was actually Midas and that he was the son of the queen and the late king, but when newcomers asked who his mother was he replied with the second cook’s name and when Elise, in a rare moment of regret, called out to her son Midas, he did not turn to face her as he skidded along the hallways with a tray.

 

She did not call him again.

 

 

 

 

 

Another tree teetered and fell as the axe chipped it one crucial inch more. Rumple put the axe down by his side and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. Hefting the axe high again, he began the tedious task of chopping the wood into manageable logs. When he was done, he carefully squeezed first his left, then his right hand into two stiff gold gloves before clumsily dumping the logs into the wood cart sitting close by. He laid his axe on the pile, took the handle of the cart, and began dragging his load home.

 

After four years in the forest, Rumple barely noticed the extra weight of the gloves and his axe, but the wood was always a considerable burden, and he sighed in relief as his shack came into view. It was a ridiculous shade of yellow, but it was perfectly waterproof and impossible to miss. He left his load outside and kicked off his boots on his way in. Once safe in the darkness of the cabin, Rumple sat and began tugging his gloves off. This was always the worst part of coming home; he had to sit with a foot and a glove on either side of his wrist and use those to hold the glove in place while he yanked his hand out. Once he had one hand free, it was slightly easier to pull the other out. His gloves clattered to the floor, skidding along the metallic surface.

 

“Finally!” Rumple was unable to stop the grin that spread from ear to ear as he flexed his fingers, reveling in his ability to move them freely. Soon, he had a fire burning in the hearth and the room was lit by a warm glow that only enhanced the yellow of the walls. Sighing, Rumple scooped up an egg with a golden tong and set it on a metal plate. He picked up the plate with the tongs and pushed it into the fire. While it was cooking, he used the steaming tongs to scoop up a tin kettle of water and scoop a pile of oats and herbs into it. Then he rescued the eggs from his oven, replacing them with the kettle. Soon the air filled with the fragrance of crushed flowers and roasting wheat.

 

“Smells great,” he told himself, laughing at the hollow echo of his voice in the cabin. He had developed a tendency to talk to himself in an attempt to thwart the silence that threatened to swallow the house at night. Some part of him knew that it couldn’t be healthy, but it was a sign that he was still human. He clung to his work and his house and his kitchen utensils because it gave him hope that someday he would be cured. It gave him hope that someday he would be able to return to civilized society.

 

His stomach rumbled in anticipation as he carried his meal to his table. Taking care not to touch anything with his hands, Rumple snapped the tongs together and began heaping egg into his mouth, washing it down every now and then with the gruel. It would be nice to have meat sometime, but Rumple knew it would be too fiddly to prepare even a rabbit without getting his hands involved.

 

For the thousandth time he wondered what the locals would say if he turned up to the market in his golden gloves, trying to sell wood while refusing to handle the trades personally. Four years, and only Mina had come looking for him after the curse had hit and forced him into isolation for fear of what he could do. He had a strictly functional relationship with the miller’s pretty daughter. She would come by every three days with a basket of necessities and lay it by the front door. He would leave six days work of hard work in the cart outside and she would transfer the wood into her own cart. Occasionally, he would leave her a piece of golden bark or a beautified oat as extra thanks.

 

He was grateful to her. It was an unconventional way to do business, but at least he could still earn his living. He rinsed both kettle and tong in the basin and curled up a reasonable distance from the fire on the cold floor. Tomorrow, he would wake up at sunrise, use the tongs to help sponge himself down, and head out to cut down a few dozen more trees. It would be four years, three-hundred-and-thirty-four days since his sixteenth birthday.

 

 

 

 

 

Two thousand kilometers southwest of the forest, Queen Elise turned her nastiest glare onto the visiting prince. He was pale, foppish, and fifteen years younger than her. She had no idea why his parents had sent him.

 

"You are astoundingly beautiful," the prince squeaked. "It is a pity that neither you nor your land is blessed with fertility as well. Such a poor queen as you must be feeling very vulnerable, but never fear! Our country can protect your gentle feminine self!"

 

Elise raised an eyebrow. That was a new courtship method. Unfortunately for the prince, the insult-flattery combination was even less effective than the flattery-flattery combination would have been.

 

"You're right. At the moment, I'm poor. Therefore, no intelligent country is going to see Stilles as a threat right now. And Floppetuce is even smaller than Stilles. You couldn't even populate a single armored division. If you're wasting money on an army, you should fire your treasurer."

 

Prince Flop huffed indignantly. "Our country lies on the border of the great Russian Tsardom. With us coming into our inheritance next month, the mighty Tsar is exceedingly likely to try and absorb our small yet proud region. All the citizens of Floppetuce are well aware of this and are willing to lay down their lives to prevent such a dreadful occurrence. Our esteemed treasurer does very well balancing our budget considering this considerable threat. Of course, our abundant economy enables us to fund an army and still have plenty left for impoverished lands such as your own."

 

"In other words, you're bribing me to marry you," said Elise, thoroughly tired of the formalities. "Goodbye."

 

The prince dropped to the floor and beat his fists against the tiles, wailing loudly. Elise covered her eyes with one hand and made a vague shooing motion with the other. In a matter of seconds, the wailing had receded into the distance and the Royal Guard was kneeling before her.

 

"Thanks," she muttered.

 

The Captain of the Guard shot her a grin. "That must be a new record, Highness. Although he was especially shrill."

 

"You're telling me," said Elise, rolling her eyes. "I'm considering a blanket ban on all proposals and naming Zola heir instead. If he wasn’t so..."

 

"Zola, the heir? That would be especially shocking. Although the girls would love it."

 

"Robert. You do realize that I, too, am female."

 

The Captain tilted his head to one side, appraising. He shrugged. "You know what he is."

 

Elise looked down at her fingers. Her nephew was the charmer of land. Flaxen-haired and olive-skinned, he breathed summer with the ease of a child born and raised in the corn fields. Half the girls in the province had been seen with him in the past year. When Elise had heard, she had told him to be careful. Zola was not stupid enough to take a girl home when the nights shone bright, but the more intelligent mothers were already beginning to grow wary when they saw him alone at the full moon. Zola had laughed at her concerns. To him, she was the aunt who had knit half a shirt and doomed his father to a half-life as he struggled on the border between bird and man. It was a title that earned her no respect and bought her no love.

 

In spite of this, Elise was fond of her nephew. Zola could talk circles round even the more educated duchesses in his quests for their hearts, and he could flatter the dukes well enough to keep them from caring. He had a silver tongue and an easy smile, and a figure kept lean by his monthly activities and a careful diet. He towered over Elise by a good head-and-a-half, and there was no trace of Tula to be seen in his angular features. He was the son she had wanted, the son whose attention she fought for. She knew what he was, and she did not care.

 

"Is there anyone else I am supposed to give an audience to?"

 

The Captain shrugged again. "That’s not my department," he replied. "Are we dismissed?"

 

Elise nodded and the Guard marched out. She beckoned her maidservant closer and sent the girl to find the Royal Advisor. It wasn't long before the man in question was trotting briskly to the throne, leading a crowd of brightly-dressed people behind him. Elise sighed.

 

"They demanded to see the queen?"

 

Her Advisor's downcast eyes and agitated fingers told her all she needed to know. She cast a trained eye over the crowd. None of the members present seemed independent enough to have overruled his sense of proprietary. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted a red carriage near the center of the mess. It was partially hidden by the props and gaudy costumes of the crowd, but instinct told Elise that this was what she should address her greeting to.

 

"I am Elise, queen of Stilles. From where do you hail? Announce yourself."

 

A watery voice sounded from the carriage. "I am Vanya, queen of Floppetuce. We believe you are acquainted with our prince Flop."

 

Elise shivered.

 

"More than we would like," she said coolly. Her Advisor gasped. He hated it when she was blunt. To her surprise, the visiting queen laughed, a bubbling laugh that ended in a husky chuckle.

 

"We apologize for him; he is the son of our dearly-beloved deceased King’s first wife. He heard your name from a visiting prince last Sunday and fell instantly in love. He has disappointed us with his crude approach and his impatience. We have come to retract his proposal by force, if necessary, but it appears you will not have any objection to that." Elise frowned at the implied threat, but Vanya continued as if ignorant of the implications of her own words. "Our country has its queen already, if we might be so bold as to say so."

 

"You need not be so humble," murmured Elise, pasting a smile on her face. Laughter bubbled from the carriage again.

 

"You are most kind. If we might have a word in private?"

 

Elise gestured wordlessly at the surrounding servants, who vanished instantly. Queen Vanya whispered something from the tent and the crowd turned as one, heading for the door. When the rustle of clothing had fallen to silence, Vanya emerged from the carriage, glittering with polished beryl. Ruby rings circled her fingers, snaking around her wrists and studded in silver chains that reached to her elbows. She looked up to the dais with a secretive smile, a scarlet talon pressed lightly to the corner of her lips.

 

"I am sure you have guessed I am here for something more than love-struck princes," she began, dropping the royal plural in favor of an intense gaze. Elise shifted in her throne, almost approving. "Flop is the previous king's son; he has inherited the idiotic tendency to blurt out our country's weaknesses to potential enemies."

 

Vanya gazed at Elise with the sort of contempt usually reserved for the dirt under one's fingernails.

 

"You want to make a deal with us," Elise concluded. Vanya shook her head.

 

" _You_ want to make a deal with _me_ ," she corrected.

 

"I have no interest in your bribes," interrupted Elise sharply. Vanya's smile broadened.

 

"No," the visiting queen agreed, "but you would be a fool to let us keep your daughter."

 

Elise stared in puzzlement. "Daughter?"

 

"Don't play dumb," laughed Vanya, chuckling. "The daughter you hated because half of her was your husband's."

 

"I see," said Elise, not seeing at all. She had never hated Tula, nor had she detested Midas. They were both men who looked better from a distance; that was all.

 

"That daughter," said Vanya, "can spin gold from straw."

 

Elise leant forward hungrily. She had no such daughter, but if Vanya believed she did, she saw no reason to deny it.

 

"What do you want for her?"

 

Vanya's bony fingers curved around her knee. "You let her marry my son. Not Flop - _my_ son. Michel wants her."

 

"So you want to merge our kingdoms anyway."

 

Vanya shook her head. "Of course not. I'll still rule my kingdom and you'll still rule your kingdom. We'll stay quite separate. Michel and the girl can handle that mess after our deaths." The visiting queen smiled sweetly.

 

There was no way Vanya planned on letting another queen keep the throne when she herself had a political claim on it, but the offer was tempting. If she played her cards right, Elise could beat the other woman at her own game and take Flopettuce off the maps instead. Frankly, she'd be doing the world a favor. There were enough towns with horrible names around.

 

"What's the catch?" If Vanya had this all planned out, there was no need to inform Elise. As the other queen had said, Elise had cut ties with her child eight years ago. Vanya could have married Michel off quietly and kept the girl's power for herself. The other queen looked vaguely impressed.

 

"The girl has a bond on her already. She can't get married if she still has obligations to someone. I know you still have links to the witchcraft that helped you into power. I want you to find whoever's bound to the girl and remove them."

 

Elise regarded the visitor impassively. Vanya was wrong, but she was close, and it was a bold move, asking Elise straight out to perform witchcraft for murder. It was an attitude Elise had come to respect during her dealings with foreign parties. "I accept your terms."

 

 

 

 

 

At first, Zola only agreed because of the pretty girl. His aunt was old and starting to get wrinkly, and that sort of appearance didn’t help at all when trying to convince him to do her a favor, especially when that favor involved a part of Zola he liked to pretend didn’t exist. His aunt seemed to think that he enjoyed turning into a monster every month, but Zola kept away from the village during the full moon for a reason. Elise’s ignorance only made her more unattractive. However, his aunt had told him the girl would be put to death if she refused to work magic, and that the girl would continue to refuse as long as she was bonded, as turning the straw to gold would inevitably lead to marrying Michel. No bonded person would even consider agreeing to that.

 

Elise was intelligent, if not beautiful. In telling Zola about her plan, she passed him the responsibility of deciding which of the two he would allow to be killed. Zola didn’t know who the girl was bonded to, but whoever they were, they were lucky; the girl was stunning. Long black hair in tight curls, huge brown eyes and a pout to die for. Zola loved the dark ones; they brought out his pale features so well. The first time he saw her, she was crying amongst piles of straw and a spinning wheel. An odd picture, for sure, but he had already been briefed about the circumstances.

 

“Hey.” She looked up at him, eyes half scorn, half hope. It was a look Zola was familiar with; the ‘proper girls’ directed that gaze at him all the time. Nobody would admit to liking a man who didn’t settle down, but secretly? Everybody wanted to be loved by him. They always gave him a chance, in the end. That was all he ever needed.

 

“Why’d they send ya for?”

 

A country girl, definitely. Raw beauty, but no polish. She should be easy to tame. Zola motioned to the guard, who nodded and left, leaving the two of them alone in the cell. He sent the girl his most winning smile.

 

“To be honest? Some sort of politics. But I’m not interested in that at all.” The girl‘s eyes narrowed. Zola knew that look. She was a miller’s daughter, experienced in spotting bargains when she saw them. He could see her mulling it over in her brain, running through all the possibilities. But she was imprisoned with a deadline. What did she have left to lose?

 

“Yer supposed ta get something from me.”

 

He nodded, still smiling. “I’m supposed to convince you to spin the straw into gold.”

 

“I can’t do it. If I could, d’ya think I’d still be here?”

 

 _Yes._ He pretended to consider it. “Why do they think you can, then?”

 

The girl hesitated. She glanced at him, then bit her lip, then glanced at him again. Zola knew that look, too. She was deciding how much to tell him. She was trying to outwit him. He almost laughed. This would be fun.

 

“I have a hairpin,” she said at last. Zola attempted to hide his confusion. “I bought it from a travelling salesman recently. It was so beautiful, made of solid gold, and he was selling it for nothing more than a week’s worth of food. Of course I bought it.”

 

She took a breath. His ears twitched. This was the important part; he was sure of it.

 

“When I brought it home to my father, he insisted that I had somehow turned a wheat stalk to gold. My hairpin looked so real he would not believe I had bought it. He boasted about it to everyone he saw. Eventually, word of it got to prince Micah. By that time, the story had evolved so I could spin anything into gold. He demanded to see the hairpin. As soon as I showed it to him, he threw me in here and told me to spin this straw into gold for him.”

 

Something about her story rang false. Zola didn’t believe she could actually turn things into gold. From what he knew, that sort of thing required a fair amount of specialized training. An uneducated girl like her could never...

 

He paused. Uneducated? That was it. Her story flowed with the ease of a practiced lie. There was none of the country lilt that had marked her earlier sentences in it.

 

“May I see the hairpin?”

 

She shrugged. “Do’s ya like.”

 

He held it up to the light. It was a remarkable creation, the exact image of a wheat stalk. Still, it didn’t explain why everybody had been so quick to believe it was a real stalk turned to gold. Plenty of blacksmiths had the ability to carve intricate details into their work. He turned the pin in his hand, bringing it slightly closer to his nose. It smelled like magic and, despite its metallic appearance, of nature. Ordinarily, even two weeks from now, Zola wouldn’t have noticed. He doubted any of the others had consciously noticed either. But for a miller and a wealthy prince, well familiar with the scent of wheat and gold respectively, he could believe that they’d felt the difference instinctively. There was magic in that hairpin.

 

Belatedly, Zola realized that this was likely the key to his aunt’s schemes. If he could follow the magic trail, he would most likely find the source of the girl’s bond as well as the pin. But he didn’t like leaving loose ends.

 

“It’s beautiful,” he said, “but it can’t compare to you.”

 

Corny, he knew. But hey, she was a miller’s daughter.

 

 

 

 

 

The moon shone brighter than it had at any point in the past month. This was the crucial time. He stood on a mountain above the towns and waited for the transformation to pass, the scent of the miller’s daughter mixing with the scent of the magic he had smelt on her hairpin. He felt himself shudder, fall, writhe, but it all seemed distant as he concentrated on the two scents. His nostrils flared; he snarled. It was time to hunt.

 

Zola cast his mind back to his time with the miller’s daughter, shifting through the layers of scent until he could separate her unique pattern from the regular human odors. It beckoned to him from the castle, but he already knew why it emanated from there. He sensed a faint echo emanating from the village; it was only natural that her household would carry her scent. Both places were devoid of the faint smell of roasting grass which marked her bond. He paced, tasting the scents on the wind as they came. An odd metallic tang bit through his thoughts. Gold. He discarded the girl’s scent and concentrated on the gold. There was magic in it. He followed the scent, snaking his way toward the forest east of the village. Without a doubt, he was honing in on his target.

 

As he entered the woods, Zola became aware of a second familiar scent mingling with the gold. It was the girl’s scent, all of it, inclusive of the bond she unwittingly wore. He moved faster, bounding between the trees, barely noticing the increasing number of stumps as he ran deeper into the forest. A flash of gold caught his eye. He ran towards it, wincing as it grew larger and brighter in the darkness. Zola stopped in front of it, jaw hanging loose at the sight.

 

He had sniffed my way to a golden house, reeking with magic and metal. Under the light of the moon, it seemed regal and impenetrable. He shivered, pushing his nose against the door. It was unmistakably gold, heavy and too difficult to shift despite the strength he now possessed. With considerable relief, Zola curled up in front of the door and waited for dawn. The bond maker would appear in the morning. It was a pity for his aunt, but Zola would have to wait until next month to feed.

 

 

 

 

 

Axe, boots, gloves in hand, Rumple grinned and pushed open the door. It seemed oddly difficult, as if something was blocking its path. He drew his foot back and delivered a vicious kick to the door. It flew open with a sound that bore and uncanny resemblance to a pained scream. Looking out, he saw a lump of pale skin, oddly shaped and –

 

“Could it be...?” He dashed out and kicked the lump with his boot, keeping his hands high in case it moved suddenly.  As his shock receded, he realized the pale lump was a man, most likely from outside the territory. Blonde hair and white skin was a clear sign of foreign descent; his mother had always stood out in the castle. Perhaps the man was lost. Yet it was the middle of summer and the woods were a fair distance from the village; the man would have had to deliberately bypass the town to reach this point.

 

He frowned.

 

“What are you doing outside my house?”

 

The man blinked up at him, bleary eyed. “You’re oddly young, for a sorcerer.”

 

Rumple sighed. The man was obviously confused, or quite mad. He nudged the man with his foot.

 

“Would you like some pants?”

 

“I would love some pants,” replied the man, and followed Rumple back into the house. Rumple fidgeted as the man took a seat at the gold table, raising an eyebrow at the shining gold all around.

 

“Odd way to spend a fortune,” the man remarked. “Say, what are those for?”

 

Rumple paused in the middle of wrestling his gloves on.

 

“Why have gold gloves if you can’t wear them?” he joked weakly, wincing as he forced his hand into the glove. He had just taken them off after washing and changing; the man had the _worst_ timing. Said man raised an eyebrow.

 

“You’ve picked an odd place to live, for someone so eager to show off.”

 

Rumple sighed. He picked out one of his uglier, less worn pants and threw them at the stranger. The man gave the pants a suspicious glance and laid them over his lap.

 

“I grew up as one of the castle servants,” said Rumple without bitterness. He’d never had any reason to feel robbed of his birthright since he had never been treated as a prince in the first place. “I guess I took a love of luxury with me even after I adopted this lifestyle.”

 

“Castle?”

 

Rumple smiled. “If we’re going to get personal I should at least know your name. I’m Rumple.”

 

“Zola.” A foreign name, as expected, given the man’s unusually pale features, but if Rumple remembered correctly, one quite common amongst the wealthier side of Rumple’s birthplace, Stilles. This was in itself strange considering that most Stilles citizens were dark like Rumple, but the name was certainly not native to his new home just within the governance of Floppetuce. During his few years amongst the village, Rumple had learnt that most of the Floppetuce citizens seemed to take the name of their country as license to give their children equally abominable names.

 

“I asked you this before, but what brings you here? Not many people come this way.”

 

“I was kicked out by my last girlfriend and ran into the woods to drown my sorrows in the snow.”

 

“Naked?”

 

“Naked,” confirmed Zola. “I was very drunk at the time.”

 

“Your girlfriend is from the village?” asked Rumple, deciding to leave that matter well alone. “What’s her name?”

 

 “Mina, the miller’s daughter.” Zola watched Rumple’s face carefully, but other than a flicker of surprise, there seemed no indication that Rumple had formed a bond with the girl. Unsettled by the other man’s response, Zola wondered if he had been mistaken, but his sense of smell was perfectly normal now and all he could pick out on the wind was the aroma of damp leaves and the lingering remnants of herbal tea. Nevertheless, the blinding gold around them assuaged his doubts a little. He had been right, he was sure; he was not used to being mistaken.

 

“Mina?” echoed Rumple. “I used to know her quite well.”

 

“May I ask what happened?” asked Zola. Perhaps Rumple was merely a good actor.

 

“I’d rather not say,” replied Rumple firmly. “Do you know what has happened to her?”

 

“How do you know that something has happened?”

 

“She comes by every week to bring me supplies from the village,” said Rumple. “It’s a sort of unspoken agreement between the two of us. She didn’t come last week, though. I’m starting to ration my supplies, but if she doesn’t come back soon I don’t know what I’ll do.”

 

“Why can’t you go into the village yourself?”

 

Rumple frowned. “You ask a lot of questions.”

 

“You’re a very interesting person,” Zola replied naturally before remembering he wasn’t talking to a girl. To his credit, Rumple only laughed.

 

“I suppose there aren’t many woodcutting hermits where you come from?” he said, grinning. “To answer your question, I’d rather not talk about that either.”

 

“I can live with that,” said Zola. “I could help you with the supplies, if you’ll put me up for a couple of weeks. I think I’ve been banned from all the bars in town after last night.”

 

“If you know Mina, why can’t you go back and remind her for me?”

 

Zola smiled. “If you’d just been dumped, would you be that eager to see your ex again so soon?”

 

Rumple sighed. “I suppose a breakup would be enough to distract Mina from our agreement. You’ll have to entertain yourself, though; watching me cut down trees may not be the most enjoyable way to pass the time.”

 

“Why don’t you let me decide that?” said Zola easily.

 

“You asked for it,” said Rumple, shrugging. “By the way, if you’re going to follow me outside, you should probably put those pants on instead of leaving them draped across your lap.”

 

Zola cast a disgusted look at the pants and put them on as quickly as possible. Ignoring Rumple’s laughter, he stalked to the door, intending to hold it open like the gentleman he always was, fashion disaster or not. He yelped in pain as his palm smacked ineffectually against the gold surface.

 

Rumple’s sudden laughter was loud enough to startle a flock of young ravens from their nests above in the trees.

 

 

 

 

 

They soon established a rhythm, of sorts. To Rumple’s surprise, his city-bred visitor seemed perfectly at home amongst the trees. Zola was thinner than Rumple, but he was still strong enough to load wood onto the cart and drag the goods into the city to trade with the merchants. The huge sacks he returned with soon had Rumple convinced that Zola had hypnotic powers: there was no way any normal person could be that good at haggling.

 

Although he resented only being able to remove his gloves when Zola was back in the village, Rumple was almost glad that the pale-skinned man had come to stay with him. Chopping wood with his gloves on had been almost impossible at first, but having Zola around to pick up after him meant that Rumple could chop wood at a faster rate than ever before.

 

More than anything, it felt good to be around somebody again. Zola was all words, pouring sound into the silent corners of Rumple’s house and making it turn alive again. For all that he was eager to make the most of the opportunity to finally have proper conversations, Rumple often found himself lost in the low lilt of Zola’s voice as the tall man spoke about faraway lands and foreign conquests and many other things Rumple had never had the chance to experience.

 

Zola spoke about magic, too. He had been apprenticed to a sorcerer for two years before he was forcibly evicted for his utter lack of talent.

 

“I know a lot about magic,” he explained, “but you can’t force magic to like you.”

 

He was unusually serious when he said the words. Rumple ventured one more question about why Zola had wanted to learn magic. The taller man brushed back strands of blonde hair which shone almost white in the sunlight.

 

“I know people who were cursed through no fault of their own,” he said, “and I wanted to save them.”

 

Rumple could only stare in shock, paralyzed, as Zola picked up another log and carried it to the cart. His mouth opened to say something, to call for help, perhaps, or even to scream, but he could not speak and Zola did not turn back to face him.

 

 

 

 

 

“Not that I’m complaining,” said Rumple suddenly, “but I suddenly realized that Mina hasn’t come by once since you’ve arrived.”

 

“I told that gossipy baker’s boy I was staying with you for the month and Mina’s still avoiding me as much as I’m avoiding her,” Zola replied cheerfully, dragging a hefty sack of groceries to the door. It was a complete lie, but he needed _some_ sort of explanation for the girl’s continued absence.

 

Rumple whacked him with a gloved hand. “Why would you do that?”

 

“I need somewhere to stay for the next few weeks, remember?” said Zola. “If she came back I’d be useless again and you’d throw me straight back on the dirt where you found me.”

 

Rumple sighed, tugging at his dark curls. “Why can’t you just head off to another town?”

 

“Trying to get rid of me?” teased Zola. “I like this town. Besides, even though we’re avoiding each other, I’ve told the girls to keep an ear out in case Mina decides she wants me back.”

 

“You were that serious?” asked Rumple incredulously. “I can’t see you being serious about anything.”

 

Zola ignored the slight and kicked at the door. Lightly, of course; he’d learnt after the first time not to try and open it by force. Rumple sighed and pushed the door open. Zola heard the other man mention something about city-bred weaklings and squawked in indignation.

 

“I have grown some fine muscles helping you load all your twigs into your cart,” he protested, attempting to drag the sack of food into the house. “We can’t all have arms like stacks of boulders.”

 

“I’ve never seen anybody with arms like stacks of boulders,” replied Rumple. He picked up the sack and carried it to the table.

 

“Show-off,” muttered Zola. “You never see anybody, full stop,” he said, a little louder.

 

“Not my choice,” said Rumple. “And before you ask, no, I’m not going to tell you why. What did you bring back this time?”

 

“Bread, lettuce, some yellow things from way down south called nananas or something, apples...”

 

“Apples!” cried Rumple, diving into the sack. Fruit and vegetables spilled out onto the floor. Zola cried out in dismay and began picking things up while Rumple managed to cup an apple in his golden gloves. The athletic man brought his hands to his face and sank his teeth into the fruit.

 

Zola screwed up his nose in distaste as the powerful scent of the apple assaulted his heightened sense of smell. It was a week to the full moon and he was starting to pick up scents from the village from outside the house, although they were dulled by the overwhelming taint of magic hanging over every inch of the forest. “Don’t you have the patience to take off your gloves before eating?”

 

“It’s just so good to be able to eat something fresh!” whimpered Rumple in between bites, apple juice dripping down his chin. Zola sighed and reached for the towel.

 

“You are such a pig,” he said, dabbing at Rumple’s dark chin. “Mina doesn’t usually bring you fruit?”

 

“She’s practical; she never brings me anything that could spoil quickly. I’ve been holding out for something like this for four years. No, I’m not telling you why I became a hermit.”

 

“You’re only holding back to preserve your big mysterious aura,” grumbled Zola. He plucked the remains of the apple from Rumple’s gloves and threw them out the open door. “I bet you got dumped by a girl and ran to the woods to soothe your broken heart.”

 

 “Don’t confuse me with you,” said Rumple, staring mournfully out the door at the mutilated apple. “I hadn’t finished eating yet! What a waste of good fruit.”

 

“I can get you fruit any time you want,” said Zola. “I will even cut your apples into tiny pieces so you can eat them like a normal human being.”

 

“I’m sorry I’m not a privileged rich boy who vomits up jewels every time he speaks,” said Rumple sullenly. Zola closed his eyes and counted to ten. He had figured early on that it would be prudent to keep his status as nephew to the rulers of several kingdoms a carefully guarded secret, because for somebody who lived in a world of gold, Rumple was surprisingly touchy about the subject. It only added to the mystery that was Rumple the woodcutter. For all the man claimed he lived in the golden house by choice, Zola was sure there was something more to it.

 

He tried hard to avoid angering Rumple. So when the man snapped for no obvious reason, it was more than irritating; it was downright _unfair_.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know sticking your face into the food was considered normal dining etiquette for townsfolk. Everybody I know uses cutlery or at least puts their food onto the table first.”

 

“If you weren’t here I’d be able to use cutlery too!” yelled Rumple.

 

Zola was halfway to another cutting retort when he saw the way Rumple’s brow was creased, the way the golden gloves seemed to drag the man’s dark wrists down like shackles. Rumple looked furious, fed-up, frustrated, and...exhausted. Zola reeled back as a memory forced its way into his mind. His father had looked exactly like the man now standing in front of him.

 

Zola remembered the nights he had spent curled into his father’s feet as his father stretched a swan’s wing out protectively over him. There had been times, too, when his father had locked himself in his room, refusing to let anyone see his disfigurement. With a rush of horror, Zola remembered the first full moon he had spent with his father after his sixteenth birthday.

 

He looked at the figure before him with growing dismay. _I haven’t been counting the days until I transform_ , he thought. _I’ve been counting down the days until I kill him_. As the full moon grew closer, the scent of magic had grown stronger. Zola was sure it was Rumple who was bonded to Mina, and he was convinced that Rumple did not know it. He had not been mistaken, and he wished he had been.

 

He probably wouldn’t be able to get through the gold door. But working with Rumple had made him stronger, and he wasn’t prepared to trust that Rumple would sleep through him banging against the door again.

 

“I’m going to go for a walk,” he said. “I’ll go to the village to tell the baker’s boy I’m leaving and then I’ll head to the other side of these woods.”

 

Immediately, Rumple’s face dropped. “You’re leaving?”

 

Zola turned away.

 

“Who am I kidding?” he said. “Mina isn’t going to take me back. I’ll make sure someone comes to bring you food and pick up the firewood.”

 

“Ah,” said Rumple. “That was the only reason you stayed here, after all.”

 

“It’s just for a little while,” added Zola, before he could think better of it. “Everyone needs their privacy sometimes, and if it gets you eating like a civilized person for a few days I’ll happily stay a few nights somewhere else. I’ll come back in a week.” _After the full moon._

 

Rumple sagged in relief.

 

“It’s getting late, though,” he said. “Can’t you stay one night longer, at least?”

 

Zola hesitated.

 

“Alright,” he agreed eventually. “But I’ll be out of your curly hair in the morning.”

 

 

 

 

 

“You have good taste,” said Vanya admiringly. She stroked a curtain with a manicured nail and turned to smile brightly at Elise, who quickly hid her clenched fists behind her back.

 

“Thank you,” she replied warmly, smiling back at the visiting queen insincerely. “Would you like to see the rest of the servants’ quarters?”

 

“If you would,” replied Vanya. Elise shifted discreetly on her sore feet. Vanya had insisted on visiting every room in the castle and touching everything in every room. Elise had managed to distract Vanya’s curious hands from the few remaining jewels in the treasury, but she had long passed the limit of her endurance and simply stared longingly at the soft couches in rooms while Vanya ran her hands over the walls.

 

It was probable that Vanya was looking for hidden passages or other castle secrets, but it was equally possible that the arrogant visitor was merely amusing herself by toying with Elise. Elise promised herself that she would do gardening or at least some sort of strenuous physical activity after Vanya left in case this ever happened again. Her feet felt like they were on fire. She didn’t think she had ever stood up for so long in her life.

 

“It will be time for dinner soon,” she told Vanya. “If you would join us in the dining hall?”

 

“Of course,” agreed Vanya graciously. “I look forward to touring the kitchens after dinner.”

 

Elise was sure the smile on Vanya’s face was mocking. She held out her hand to the other woman.

 

“Dinner will take a few hours,” she said, adopting a regretful tone. “We like to be entertained while we eat. Unfortunately, by the time the meal finishes it will be far too late for tours. We shall have to continue at a later date.”

 

“Tomorrow, then?” asked Vanya. It was difficult to tell because Vanya had a smirk on her face at all times, but if Elise didn’t know better she would have thought Vanya was excited at the prospect.

 

“Tomorrow it is,” she confirmed reluctantly. “Do you have any requests for your entertainment tonight?”

 

“I love jesters,” confessed Vanya. “I laughed myself to tears at the tale of that cat with the fancy clothes.”

 

“Really?” asked Elise before she could stop herself. “So did I!”

 

Vanya’s eternal smile widened. “I hope the Stilles version of the tale is as amusing as the one our royal jester tells.”

 

That line was definitely condescending, even if it sounded completely sincere. Elise allowed herself a moment to respect Vanya’s ability to be arrogant while earnest before she devoted her emotions to seething inwardly at the insult. It was certainly a pity that Vanya wanted to overtake Stilles. If things had been different, they might have been friends.

 

 

 

 

 

Zola walked aimlessly for three days before he figured out where he was. The scent of magic seemed to grow stronger, oddly enough, as he walked further from Rumple’s house, but he attributed that to his increasingly sensitive nose. After a day or so, however, the scent began to grow fainter again, interspersed with the scent of old wood and metal that signaled he was approaching civilization. He was growing stronger and faster every day, but he was unsure if he would be able to find a safe, secluded place in town before the full moon approached. He contemplated climbing a tree; if he thought of squirrels that might help him stay away from the temptation of human flesh.

 

On the fourth day, he awoke to musty warmth approaching from the south. Curious, he crept towards the horse, picking out as he did so the spicy scent of its rider. He was so intent on pinpointing the location of the scent that he crouched low and stared at the ground, hunting for additional clues. Usually he kept himself around crowds enough to limit his instinctive attraction to larger creatures, but staying with Rumple for the month and walking on his own for three days had lowered his control. The horse and its rider beckoned him from an unknown point in front of him, coming closer with each step he took.

 

It was due to these animalistic reactions that he didn’t see the girl until the rope wrapped around his arms, sinking down to hook around his elbows and sweep him off his hands and knees. A knot zoomed down the rope to tighten around his arms and in a matter of seconds he was completely immobile.

 

The girl hopped off her horse and looked down at him.

 

“Trying to sneak up on me, were you?”

 

“I couldn’t help it,” he protested weakly. “You’re so beautiful. I’m sure you’ve heard that many times before, though.”

 

“Aren’t you a charmer,” the girl sneered. She patted her horse, which was hooked into a bridle made entirely of loops of rope. “A werewolf, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

Zola gaped. “How did you know?”

 

She studied him contemptuously. “I’ve seen your kind before. The crawling didn’t help. Why aren’t you around more people?”

 

“I’ve been tied up,” said Zola. The girl looked at him witheringly. “I mean, before this. I had a job I couldn’t get out of, and I ended up having to come this way.”

 

“I’ll accept that,” the girl said, looking at him through her dark lashes. She pulled at the ropes binding him and they fell loose immediately. “My name is Hood. I could use your nose.”

 

“It’s three days to the full moon,” said Zola, scrambling to his feet. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

 

“You won’t have enough time to make it to the village and find a shelter before you turn. If you’re with me I can make sure you won’t hurt anyone.”

 

Zola looked at the girl incredulously. “I’ll tear you to shreds.”

 

She stepped up to him suddenly, her scent filling him with memories of apples and straw and a deeper, more personal aroma. He pushed her away from him with wide eyes.

 

She laughed. “Like I said, I’ve dealt with your kind before.”

 

Zola shook his head in wonder. “You’re crazy.”

 

“She likes me better that way,” said Hood. “Here’s the plan: I’m searching for a magic house in these woods. I’m surprised you didn’t smell it.”

 

“A magic house?” Zola echoed.

 

“Children around my side have been going missing for weeks on end. Two kids made it back yesterday. They say they were chased by a magic house. Go on, have a sniff. Where is it?”

 

Rumple’s house was incapable of chasing small children, no matter how magical it was. Zola sucked in a deep breath of air. The scent of magic was strong around them, as he had thought. The house had to be Rumple’s, although Zola didn’t know where the rumors had come from, but even if he had somehow missed a second source of magic, if they doubled back now, he would be too close to Rumple on the night of the full moon. Hood could handle him, provided she was telling the truth, but something twisted in his stomach when he thought of Rumple seeing him in his turned state. More importantly, if Hood failed to restrain him...

 

Zola pushed the unpleasant thoughts out of his head. Since he was unwilling to bring Hood to Rumple, he had to figure out a way to distract her.

 

“What makes you think I don’t want to hurt anyone?”

 

He bared her teeth at the girl, who bared her teeth right back at him.

 

“Run to the village, then,” she dared. “I’m offering you security at the full moon. Is there a reason you don’t want to lead me back the way you came? I’ll find it eventually, you know.”

 

Zola studied her, eyes flicking from the rope in her hands to the horse waiting patiently beside them.

 

“We’re too far away,” he said. “We’ll have to get closer before I can pinpoint anything.”

 

Hood nodded approvingly and leapt on her horse.

 

“I can’t keep up with you like that,” Zola said, hoping to slow down the journey. Hood scoffed.

 

“Keep up or I tie you up and carry you along that way. Saves me time later.”

 

Zola cursed her inwardly and began to run in front of her, sniffing the wind urgently as he tried to think of a plan.

 

 

 

 

 

Around half a day into their chase, Zola caught wind of a second magical scent. He had missed it the first time, trying his best to ignore any reminders of his time with Rumple, but to the west of Rumple’s house he could discern magic surrounded by other, less  
familiar scents. Within the relief he felt that he wasn’t going directly to Rumple, there was a growing sense of unease. Somehow, the taste of the magic felt strange. It wasn’t exactly familiar, but it seemed to resonate in some part of him, as if he would be able to reach out and grasp it if he only said the right thing.

 

He sped up. Hood’s rope lashed out, catching him around one arm, but this time he was prepared. Although he had no real talent for magic, Zola had picked up a handful of tricks during his term as a magician’s apprentice, and the closer he came to the night of the full moon, the higher his affinity for magic was. He couldn’t manage the full spell, but the small fire he produced was enough to burn his bonds away. Ignoring the stinging of his arm, he raced ahead blindly, narrowly swerving around thick trees.

 

There was something magical ahead, and it was part of him, an inheritance he had been waiting to collect. It called to him, urging him onward, and he dropped to all fours, sprinting along on his hands and feet, unaware of the grazes accumulating on his palms.

 

By the time he reached his destination, he was exhausted. He had barely enough strength to snarl at the closed door before he dropped down in front of it. A tall woman came out to greet him, smiling as she saw his limp body.

 

“We shall eat well tonight,” she whispered, and carried him inside.

 

 

 

 

 

When he awoke, his hands and feet were tied with chains that reeked of magic. He glanced around, eyes widening as he felt the magic of his enchantment reach out to the woman smiling down at him.

 

“I don’t remember you,” she said in a tone which could almost have passed for curious. “Why do you possess some of my magic?”

 

Zola rattled the chains, testing their strength. He searched her lined face for some familiarity but could not recognize her at all.

 

“I’ve never charmed a werewolf before,” the woman continued. “But Yaga thought she knew all the wolves of this forest. Who are you?”

 

“I am Zola,” he answered, seeing no reason to hide his name now that he knew hers. He knew now why her magic drew him to her. “You’re Baba Yaga.”

 

Zola had promised his father he would find out the proper cure from the witch if he ever saw her.

 

“Transformation magic,” he pressed on, before she could reply. “How do you reverse a curse which has already been partly removed?”

 

Yaga’s eyes widened. “You poor child,” she said, and laughed. “You poor, incurable child.”

 

Zola’s heart sank. He blinked back his disappointment and gazed around the room once more, searching this time for escape routes. The moon was rising, bright and barely a shade away from perfectly round. He had to get out.

 

 

 

 

 

She would get out someday. In the darkness, Mina sagged against the stone wall, as far from the piles of straw as possible in a room flooded with them. A soft voice issued from the door.

 

“It’s safe now.”

 

Michel’s pale hand pushed the door open. Trusting the darkness to hide her smile, Mina turned to the Crown Prince of Floppetuce.

 

“You’re back again.” There was no hint of a country accent in her voice.

 

“I couldn’t stay away,” replied Michel, squatting down in front of her. “Are you going to listen to me tonight?”

 

She shrugged. “I listen to you every night. You like talking.”

 

“Look,” said Michel. “My ma is crazy. I don’t know why she believes you can do – witchcraft, or whatever it is.”

 

“I’m still here,” said Mina flatly. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

 

Michel bowed his head.

 

“I’ve told you already, I’m not keeping you here because I want you to make me rich. I know it’s impossible for you to turn straw into gold and I’ve fallen in love with you anyway.”

 

“And I’m still locked up.” Mina lifted a hand to Michel’s cheek, listening for the sharp breath he took in response. “You have terrible courtship techniques.”

 

The prince’s cheeks grew warm under her hand.

 

“I’ve never had to court a girl before,” he said defensively. In the dim light, Mina could barely make out a wry twist to Michel’s mouth that she found illogically endearing. “I’m a prince. All the girls liked me anyway.”

 

“I’ve never been fond of princes,” she replied conversationally. Michel flinched away from her hand. He scrambled to his feet, tripping over his coat. There was something about him that made her want to push him, just to see him wobble.

 

 “I’ll visit you again tomorrow.” The same promise, every night. Michel turned back in the doorway, looking at her with pleading eyes. Mina let her head fall to the side, unable to look back. Stupid prince. It was stupid to fall in love with a stranger.

 

Michel sighed. “Was there anything you wanted?”

 

She never answered him. Yet for some reason, this time, Mina found her lips forming words, soundlessly, invisible to Michel.

 

_See you tomorrow._

 

 

 

 

 

_I have to get out._

 

His mind was lost in a cloud of confusion. Everything was hunger. Hunger and cold and two scents that would lead him to his prey. He had to find the one bonded to the girl and eat him. He had to eat the witch keeping him captive. Two commands, warring with each other.

 

The witch turned to him, eyes widening in shock.

 

Zola licked his fangs and fire melted his shackles. She threw a freezing spell at him, but Zola had her magic in him, and her spell could not fight against another of its kind. He leapt upon her, eyes gleaming with hunger.

 

 _We shall eat well tonight_ , he thought vindictively, and devoured her.

 

 

 

 

 

There was a girl, too, a strong, dangerous girl. She would try and stop him from reaching the one he had to find. He scanned the room quickly and slid out of the house, watching as it grew an enormous pair of wings and flapped away.

 

He could scent two humans not too far for him to reach them before dawn. The dangerous girl’s was approaching. He bounded away in search of her. He would have enough time to reach them both, if he was lucky.

 

His nose kept low to the ground, he followed the scent, relishing in the joy of the hunt. She was close, so close. So very close.

 

A rope whipped at his shoulder. He rolled out of the way, baring his teeth at her.

 

“Going somewhere?” asked Hood, flicking the rope at him again. He dodged and crouched warily, watching the rope attentively. Dangerous girl. She knew how to handle them.

 

Hood stepped back. Zola was different to her werewolf; he was faster, and could work magic. She was no longer certain that she could overcome him. She threw her rope at him, whipping his arm, and urged her horse deeper into the forest. She wouldn’t be able to outrun him forever, but she was sure that she could hold him off until dawn this way.

 

 

 

 

 

Rumple pressed his hand to his forehead. Everything ached. He had felt tired since Zola’s departure, growing lethargic halfway through chopping a tree down and falling asleep in the middle of piling logs into his cart. He sat up in bed and stumbled sleepily to the kitchen, pouring himself some tea with shivering hands.

 

Too many dreams. Already, Rumple couldn’t remember the dream, but the feelings of anxiety it had provoked lingered.

 

If he hadn’t already been awake, he wouldn’t have heard the horse galloping through the forest. He grabbed his axe and pushed open the door. It wasn’t as dark as he had though; it must almost be dawn.

 

“Who’s there?” he called.

 

There was a flicker of shadow between the trees. The horse sped towards him and Rumple caught sight of a girl riding on it.

 

“Wolf,” she gasped. Rumple tightened his grip on his axe.

 

“I’ll take care of it,” he told her. She shook her head.

 

“It’s not normal,” she warned him. “I didn’t come for help. I came to warn you. Get on my horse; I’ll carry you to safety.”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” said Rumple. “You ride back to the village. I can handle this.”

 

The girl narrowed her eyes and began to twirl a long rope.

 

“Either you come with me of your own volition,” she said, “or I force you to.”

 

Rumple held his axe up.

 

“You’ll regret it if you do,” he said. “Trust me on that.”

 

The girl flung her rope at him. Rumple caught one end as it began to wrap around his waist and it turned to gold in an instant. He released the rope, watching impassively as it fell to the ground, stiff and no longer able to be manipulated by the girl.

 

She stared at him in shock.

 

“I can handle this,” he repeated. She nodded.

 

“It will be here in about a minute,” she said. “I was able to trip it up and bind it for a while, but it will break through eventually. All you have to do is hold it off for another hour.”

 

“Another hour?”

 

“Until dawn,” she said. “It’s a werewolf.”

 

Rumple froze. Something at the back of his brain began to fall slowly into place.

 

“Did you meet it as a human?”

 

She nodded.

 

“He was coming from your end. I’m guessing you met him too? Pale, blonde, quite tall.”

 

Rumple remembered knocking Zola away from his doorstep the day they met.

 

“Go into my house,” said Rumple quietly. “I don’t think he can get past the door.”

 

He followed her into the house and shut the door, heart thumping wildly as he heard the beast sniff at their door, pounding against it only twice before settling down in front of it.

 

Now all they had to do was wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zola’s face drained of color as he took in the golden door in front of him. At the same time, he was relieved that he hadn’t hurt anyone.

 

The door creaked open.

 

“I think we need to talk,” said Rumple. “Also, you owe me some clothes.”

 

Zola followed Rumple inside meekly. Hood scowled at him from the table.

 

“You didn’t tell me you were magic.”

 

“You didn’t tell me anything at all,” said Rumple softly. “So tell me now: who are you really?”

 

 

 

 

 

“I am the nephew of Queen Elise of Stilles,” Zola began.

 

“So we’re cousins.”

 

Zola blinked, disconcerted.

 

“We are?”

 

“I’m her son.”

 

A million things rushed through Zola’s mind. His aunt had told him that Queen Vanya thought the gold-spinner was her daughter, but Mina hadn’t spun the gold, and Rumple wasn’t a girl. Evidently there had been some sort of miscommunication.

 

“Well then,” said Zola, “that explains a lot.”

 

“Did Queen Elise send you here?”

 

“Yes,” Zola confessed. “You have a magical bond with Mina that’s preventing her from marrying the Prince of Floppetuce – ”

 

Hood snorted.

 

“ – and I was sent to remove the bond.”

 

“What do you mean, a magical bond?”

 

“Bonds are formed when promises are made. Usually, they’re formed during marriage ceremonies or declarations of love.”

 

“I haven’t made anything of the sort with Mina,” said Rumple flatly.

 

“I know,” replied Zola, “but you still have a bond. You mentioned that you had a business arrangement with her, right?”

 

Rumple nodded.

 

“I’ve been thinking, and the reason your business contract bound her so strongly to you must have been that you are an untrained sorcerer.”

 

“I think I’d know if I was a sorcerer,” said Rumple. Zola disagreed, but this wasn’t the time to argue. “Anyway, I can’t let Mina take the blame for my actions.”

 

“Off you go, then,” drawled Hood. “I’ll watch the house until you get back.”

 

“She’s going to steal all your gold utensils and run away before you return,” Zola whispered to Rumple.

 

“I know,” said Rumple. “I was getting sick of them, anyway.”

 

 

 

 

 

Elise strode down the hallway, her robe billowing out behind her. It was _cold_ in the Floppetuce castle. Vanya noticed her shivering.

 

“I’m sorry,” the Queen said, smiling mockingly as always. “I forgot you weren’t accustomed to our colder climates.”

 

Vanya probably enjoyed watching Elise suffer. Vanya led them to a closet and pulled out a thick cloak with hundreds of gems laid into it.

 

“It’s a little heavy,” said Vanya, “but it is very warm. You may keep it, if you like.”

 

Elise smiled back, seething inwardly. Trust Vanya to flaunt her wealth. Stilles may have been going through an economic crisis, but the last thing Elise needed was false pity. She put on the cloak, which was surprisingly heavy, even with Vanya’s warning, and stumbled. She could barely keep her knees straight under its immense weight.

 

Vanya raised her hand to her mouth.

 

“Oh my,” said the Queen. “Perhaps a lighter one would be more suitable.”

 

Definitely gloating. There was no way that had been accidental. Elise gritted her teeth and kept silent. She would persist through these trials, and when she had control of Floppetuce, she would give Vanya a coat weighing fifty pounds and pretend to be shocked when her rival staggered under its weight.

 

Michel burst into the room.

 

“Mother! The girl has done it!”

 

Vanya’s eyes sharpened.

 

“Show us.”

 

 

 

 

 

The room held more gold than Stilles’ treasury. Elise pushed down the vague jealousy that rose up in her and scanned the room. The gold in it would pay off her debts, but it wouldn’t help Stilles’ struggling economy to recover, and they would be back in debt within a month.

 

“How do we know this isn’t a trick?” she asked. Michel gulped. _Interesting_. “If she really can turn straw into gold, send her to another room and have her repeat her magic.”

 

Michel gasped.

 

“What?”

 

Vanya put one hand on his arm and the other on Elise’s.

 

“Calm down, Michel,” she said sharply. “It is a difficult thing for me to believe as well. Have her repeat the miracle for us, and we will believe.”

 

Michel sucked in his breath. Everything was happening as Zola and Rumple had told him.

 

“In that case,” he said, “if she completes the deed again, let her never have to spin straw again for the rest of her life.”

 

Elise laughed. The only reason she had agreed to enter the mess was so she could keep the girl on as a source of income afterwards.

 

“Why would I agree to that?”

 

Michel looked steadily at her.

 

“You will have your daughter back,” he said earnestly. “Your family will be whole again.”

 

The boy was smart, at least. If Elise refused now, she would look particularly egotistical. More importantly, she would risk jeopardizing her original bargain.

 

“Two days, then,” she said. “Two days and two rooms turned to gold, just to be sure.”

 

Michel’s shoulders sagged, but he nodded.

 

 

 

 

 

Elise gazed bitterly at the room, avoiding the calm stare of the girl who had turned the contents of her prison to treasure. There was enough gold to transform Stilles from a modest township to a thriving realm, but she would have to work hard to maintain the economic growth. Perhaps after she received the girl, Elise could establish some sort of secret work schedule with her new captive. There had to be something she could use as a bartering tool to ensure the girl spun more gold for Stilles.

 

As she was thinking, Vanya swept into the room, beaming. She had probably planned this whole fiasco from the beginning, Elise thought bitterly. The other queen caught her eye and winked.

 

“I have a surprise for you,” she said, and plucked a short piece of paper from her robe. “I drew this up yesterday.”

 

Elise gazed, shocked, at the piece of paper.

 

“What is this?”

 

“Think of this as a form of goodwill from one Queen to another,” said Vanya, eyes softening. “During my visit to Stilles I have been fortunate enough to add you to my list of friends. All I ask in return for this gift is your friendship.”

 

“You can’t buy friendship,” scoffed Elise, mind racing, “and not this cheaply. You are fortunate that I already consider you a friend.”

 

A lifelong guarantee that Floppetuce would support Stilles financially whenever Elise asked. It stung her pride, to accept this, which Vanya probably knew, and yet Elise found herself wondering whether she had been wrong about Vanya the whole time.

 

“It is good, is it not?” asked Vanya.

 

Elise clutched the contract tighter. It was too good. There had to be a catch to it somewhere, and Elise wasn’t going to accept financial help from Floppetuce, of all places.

 

“I am very grateful to you,” she said, “but I cannot accept this. I will take a loan from your country, but I will not receive your charity.”

 

Vanya’s eyes softened.

 

“At least accept the gold your daughter has spun,” she said. Elise smirked triumphantly to herself and made straight for the gold without complaint.

 

A voice rang out from outside the room.

 

“She doesn’t have a daughter.”

 

Rumple entered, hands tucked safely away in a pair of makeshift mittens he had made for himself using some old rags the kitchen hands had lent him. Zola and Michel followed, Michel hiding nervously behind Rumple’s broad shoulders.

 

Lost for words, Elise stared at her child in horror. He looked exactly as Tula had when her deceased husband had first met her by the lake. For a second, she wondered if she was seeing his ghost returned to punish her. Rumple smiled, a quirk of the lips that seemed to take more effort than a smile should, and Elise remembered that she’d had a son once, a long time ago.

 

“Midas?”

 

Rumple shook his head.

 

“Only to you, mother.”

 

Vanya looked from Elise to Rumple, eyes flashing.

 

“What is going on?” she demanded, fixing her fiery gaze on Elise. “You never told me you had a son.”

 

“I couldn’t trust you at the time,” said Elise smoothly, seeing no reason to hide any longer now that Rumple seemed determined to ruin her. “I merely went along with whatever false stories that you had concocted.”

 

Vanya’s smile looked a little fragile now, as if she was finally realizing that Elise wasn’t the ignorant woman Vanya had mistaken her for.

 

“Who is the girl?” asked Vanya, turning to Michel. “Have you been keeping secrets from me too, Michel?”

 

Chastened, Michel bowed his head.

 

“It is not his fault,” said Mina. “I was in love with him. I wanted to prove myself suitable, so I told him I was a princess who could spin straw to gold. I never thought you would make me prove it.”

 

“That’s not what happened at all!” cried Michel. “That – ”

 

“ – is exactly what happened,” cut in Zola smoothly. “Rumple is a friend of Mina, and offered to help out with the initial proof, but was unaware that Mina had been captured due to his living arrangements.”

 

“What about the bond?” asked Vanya. “You say Mina is in love with my Michel, but she has already formed a bond with another man.”

 

“A mere business arrangement,” replied Zola. “Rumple is a sorcerer and the contract between them was accidentally made stronger than necessary.”

 

“Is the bond dissolved now?” asked Vanya. Zola put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and nudged the man by his side. Rumple’s responding glare was even darker than his skin.

 

“You don’t have to bring me food any longer,” he said to Mina, feeling incredibly awkward. His friend ran to Michel and kissed his cheeks.

 

“We can be married!” she gushed, yanking at the stunned Prince’s ear so she could whisper into it. “Play along. If you’re especially good, I might not divorce you at the end of the year.”

 

Vanya scowled and slapped away Zola’s hand, which had been creeping steadily around her shoulders.

 

“Michel, she cannot spin the straw into gold. Wasn’t that why you proposed to her in the first place?”

 

The Prince was still too shocked to reply. Mina stepped on his toes discreetly.

 

“When…when Mina was imprisoned I came to know her better and I am still in love with her,” he croaked out. Vanya smiled tiredly at him.

 

“Then I suppose I should not play the evil queen and stand in the face of true love any longer,” she said, and turned to Elise. “I am unhappy that you lied to me. I thought we had an agreement, and then I thought we were friends. It appears I was wrong both times.”

 

“I thought you were being insincere,” said Elise, beginning to panic. “Your son Flop did not give me the greatest impression of your kingdom.”

 

“I told you he was the son of my dead husband’s first wife,” hissed Vanya, her trademark smile completely gone from her face. “I am not related to him at all!”

 

Elise blinked, heartbeat stuttering to a halt at the other Queen’s furious expression.

 

“I…am sorry,” she ventured. Vanya’s smile reappeared, and she laughed, a laugh like a rushing stream.

 

“I am still angry with you,” she said, beaming. “But I will try to forgive.”

 

Elise’s heart began to beat slowly again.

 

“You can keep the room of gold,” added Vanya, almost as an afterthought. “Maybe it will convince you that I am sincere.”

 

The room sparkled invitingly, drawing Elise in. It would be so easy to accept.

 

“Thank you very much,” she said, scooping up an armful of hay-turned-gold. “It is a very good bribe.”

 

 

 

 

 

“At least my mother is happy,” said Michel, having seemingly recovered his powers of speech now that Mina was a respectable distance away and no longer clinging to him.

 

“And mine is ecstatic,” added Rumple, “but that can’t be helped.”

 

“I could make your mother happier,” said Zola, poking Michel, who looked at him, dismayed.

 

“Not going after country girls anymore?” asked Mina, stroking Zola’s arm provocatively. Michel spluttered and looked from his fiancée to Zola in alarm.

 

“You’re not even a country girl,” said Zola. “You tricked me into thinking you were with that country accent you don’t actually have.”

 

Rumple looked at him in confusion.

 

“There’s no such thing as a country accent,” he said. “Shouldn’t I have at least a hint of one if there was?”

 

“Maybe not where you are, but it definitely exists in Stilles,” Zola insisted. “The country girls in Stilles are usually uneducated, too. I was once with a girl who didn’t even know how to count.”

 

“Probably the baker’s daughter,” said Mina dismissively. “To her, two dozens are always twenty-six. Also, I’ve traded with the Stilles girls before and they’re so educated they sound almost like the court women. No trace of an accent at all. They say they put on the drawl because you seem to like it.”

 

Zola gaped at her in dawning horror.

 

“Yer a better catch than any of ta village boys, Zola,” drawled Mina. She looked at him triumphantly and dropped the accent. “I was a country girl, no matter what you might think. Now I’m a princess. Turns out us country girls aren’t so stupid after all.”

 

She took Michel’s arm and patted Zola on the shoulder.

 

“No hard feelings,” she laughed, and disappeared from the corridor with prince in tow.

 

 

 

 

 

“She planned this,” muttered Zola. “She had this planned all along.”

 

“Maybe,” said Rumple, “or maybe you’re reading too far into things again, like when you told me I was a sorcerer.”

 

“Listen to me,” urged Zola. “You _are_ a sorcerer. An untrained one, at least. That’s why I wanted to find you, at first. Someone with the power to turn things to gold would be able to remove my curse, and my father’s.”

 

Rumple shook his head, tangling his hand in his dark curls.

 

“I can’t! You say I’m a sorcerer, but I’m cursed, Zola. I’m as helpless as you are.”

 

“It’s not a curse,” insisted Zola. “Curses smell different. Think, Rumple. Was there ever a time when you wished you were rich?”

 

Reluctantly, Rumple brought to mind all his years as a kitchen servant. There had certainly been times when he had resented his life as a servant. Yet on the whole, he had been satisfied with that life. His longings hadn’t been strong.

 

Zola saw his expression.

 

“Magic is delicate,” he explained. “If you wished it even a little, at the right time, and in the right place, it would have clung to you.”

 

That was a terrible explanation. Rumple folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.

 

“Why didn’t it go away when I wished it to, then?”

 

“It is much harder to remove a curse than to cast one,” said Zola. “My father, for instance, was transformed into a swan with a single word. It took a blood sacrifice from a loved one to turn him half back into a man.”

 

The taller man’s expression was wistful, and full of a pain that stretched out over years. Rumple could understand that pain.

 

“I’ll find a way to remove the curse,” he said, softly. “I promise.”

 

“I can take you to my old master,” Zola suggested. “He’s been looking for an apprentice for a while.”

 

Rumple smiled.

 

“I suppose we had better not keep him waiting.”

 

As they raced out of the castle, Rumple cast off one of his gloves and ran his hand gently over a brick by the castle entrance, watching it turn to the familiar shade of gold he had once coveted. In his mind, he swore that someday, he would break out of his golden prison and stand in a world of color once more.

 

He would hold fast to that dream of a happy ending.


End file.
